Humble Beginnings
by breeeezy123
Summary: "Most see it as a death sentence; the idea of being set free into the real world without the protective walls of the orphanage can be a scary thing. Basic survival skills are necessary in order to stay alive. So I don't know why I'm giddy about leaving. All that awaits me outside these walls is a bleak future." The story of Chase's journey to Castanet as seen through his eyes.
1. Chapter 1

Hello all! Thank you SO MUCH for your interest in my new story! The idea for this came to light very recently, as I was working on my other fic, actually. It stuck with me so much, and I was left with no choice but to go ahead and write it, because it just would not leave my mind. Anyhow, enough of my rambling, I hope you enjoy!_  
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Disclaimer: I do not own Harvest Moon. Or the picture.

* * *

The twenty-third day of spring has never been a happy day for me. Never. Not when I turned five, not when I turned ten, and not when I turned fifteen. But this year might be different than the rest. I've spent practically my entire life in this poor excuse of a children's home, and today, this very day, I'm leaving. I'm finally free.

My parents are dead. A car accident killed them, to be specific. It happened when I was a baby, hardly the age of one. The only relatives I had were either dead or distant, unwilling to adopt me. So, to make it easy for everyone else, I was put here. I have no memory of my parents, only their pictures in a silver locket that I keep around my neck, tucked underneath my shirt. It's the only item I own to remember them by and the sole reason I know what they look like.

As much as I hate crummy Hawthorne Orphanage, though, I really shouldn't complain. They've clothed me, educated me, gave me a place to sleep at night, and, if slimy soups and stale bread are considered food, they've fed me. For seventeen years. Rules and regulations state that once a child reaches seventeen, they are to leave. Most see it as a death sentence; the idea of being set free into the real world without the protective walls of the orphanage can be a scary thing. Basic survival skills are necessary in order to stay alive. So I don't know why I'm giddy about leaving. All that awaits me outside these walls is a bleak future.

The reason I say this is because most of us that are released from here can't do anything for ourselves. We are taught to obey, not to lead. We lack the skills necessary for subsistence. In fact, more than half of the orphans end up as drug dealers or prostitutes just to have a place to rest their heads at night. Or at least that's what I've heard. Luckily for me, I don't plan on becoming either of those, but still. That leaves me with the burning question of what I'm actually going to do once I get out of this hellhole.

I don't have the time to think about it, because someone's at the door now and they're telling me it's time to go. I've already changed into something more casual than the typical white dress shirt, red tie and gray sweater vest they have us boys and girls wear every day. Disgusting. I'm much more comfortable in khakis, sandals, and a plain t-shirt. I rise from my bed and meet my escort at the door.

A part of me is a bit sad to go, I'll admit it. As we walk past the classrooms in the lower wing of the building I peer inside them, catching my last glimpses of the younger faces inside. I wonder how they'll feel when they reach their graduation day. Dread? Optimism? It's bittersweet for me. I know that uncertainty is what lies ahead, but what's out there has to be better than what's in here. As I study their little faces, I try to take pictures in my mind, because I know it's the last time I'll ever see them.

Before I know it, I'm outside at the front gate. It mechanically opens for me and I'm standing before the open world. The city. I take one last glance back to the place that I've called home my entire life. A prison. That's what it looks like to me as I stand at the crossroads of independence and captivity. The crunching of gravel beneath my feet silences as I take my first steps onto the smooth sidewalk.  
The rattling of the gate behind me tells me that I'm truly all alone now. And the first thing I want to do is get as far away as I possibly can. So I walk. I shove my hands in my pockets and begin to take brisk steps in the opposite direction. The air reeks of pollution, but it's also sweet. It's the aroma that follows after a heavy rain. I like it.

I'm in the Slum. That's what they call it. It's the part of the city where the poorest of the poor live, hence the name. Hawthorne just so happens to sit in the middle of it. It makes sense when I think about it; every year they dump hundreds of homeless, jobless urchins like myself onto the streets and expect us to know a thing or two about getting work and a place to live and this and that. So why not start here? I laugh openly, earning myself a few hard stares. I'd be _lucky _to get a place here. Did I mention it's the part of the city with the highest crime rate? I wonder why.

I keep walking until I'm sure that Hawthorne is completely out of my view. Pausing for a moment, I try to see where I'm at. Sketchy, run-down apartments line the sidewalks. An intersection is clear in my sight a few yards ahead. A couple of young boys, brothers I assume, are playing barefoot in the middle of the street. Where are their parents? I resist the urge to bang on the door of the apartment they live in to get them. Who lets their children play in the streets like that? With the occasional car zooming by, it's an accident waiting to happen. I don't know why, but for some reason anger swells in my chest.

A jagged yelp cracks through the air, and for a moment, I think it belongs to one of the boys. But it doesn't. Too feminine. I tear my eyes away from the children and look ahead. The cry belongs to a young woman, who appears to be fighting with a man over a brown paper bag. She stands her ground and holds a death grip on it, while the man, who is much bigger than her might I add, tugs hard. Then the unthinkable happens.

He rips his arms away from the bag and in a quick yet brute movement, uses his size to his advantage and shoves the woman to the ground. Fueled by my rage triggered from the event with the boys, I charge ahead with my fists tightly balled at my sides. My eyes are locked onto him as he picks up the brown paper bag, and he doesn't see me until I'm right at him. I raise my right fist and put all of my power and momentum right into his left cheek; just inches shy from the nose.

He tumbles hard onto the pavement, the bag falling from his hands. As he stumbles up, he looks me dead in the eye. I see a hint of something familiar in his rusty brown eyes before he dashes off like a scared puppy. The contents of the bag on the ground are splayed all over the street, and it is then that I realize why I experienced the strange feeling of déjà vu. He was robbing her for food. Not money, just food. He was so hungry that he had to _steal _food from someone. Most likely someone from Hawthorne. Someone I know I've seen before.

After I make sure the scumbag is good as gone, I turn my attention back to the woman behind me. She's on her knees now, having recovered from the fall and now frantically scrambling to get her groceries back into the bag.

"Let me help you," I offer as I squat down.

Her hand shoots up, palm facing me. "No!" she shrieks in a jolted voice. "I got it!"

To show me she's capable, she picks up the food even quicker than she was before. She must think I'm like the guy who did this to her. I don't really blame her. She stands up on shaky legs and begins to scurry away when I spot an orange on the ground that she must have missed.

"You forgot an orange!" I call after her.

She doesn't even look back. "Keep it!"

I sigh, and reluctantly shove the orange in my pocket. That's something I never want to see again. Sickened, I keep walking.

My leisurely stroll ends when I notice it's getting dark. These streets are even more dangerous at night. I have no money, only the clothes on my back. So I figure that maybe it's time to rest for the evening. But where? In my tired and hungry state, I'm in no condition to search for a place to rest or get my face beaten in by some punk, so I slip into the closest ally and settle into a tight nook, where I'm hopefully hidden in the shadows. When my stomach rumbles noisily, I remember the orange in my pocket. I eat it, and while it doesn't fill me, it's better than nothing.

As if my situation couldn't get any worse, I feel a small, prickling sensation on my arm. Followed by another. And another. These sensations continue all over and into the lighted area in the ally beside me as small black dots that seem to appear from nowhere and darken the pavement. It's raining. I look up. Much to my dismay, there's no form of cover anywhere. The small pitter-patters eventually turn into a heavy downpour.

My name is William Parton, and today I am seventeen years old. Happy freaking birthday to me.

* * *

Now, I know his name is Chase. But he doesn't. Muahahah.

I hope you liked it. I know this was a bit short, and I hope none of it feels rushed, and I usually like to make chapters a bit longer, but this is more of an introduction to things. And also, not a lot of dialogue, but I promise there'll be more. C:

I really shouldn't have published this, because I'm still working on my other fic, All About Us. And the idea of working on two stories at the same time seems exhausting, hahaha. XD So I'll probably switch back and forth. By the way, if you're a Gill fan, check it out!

Please leave a review! I love constructive criticism! If you're reading this, I love you! If you leave a review, I'll love you even more! :D

I'm super excited for this fic. Until next time!

P.S: I may change my title and/or genres later on.


	2. Chapter 2

When I wake in the morning, I'm pleased to discover that still I'm in one piece. Although my wet clothes stick uncomfortably to my skin now and every muscle, bone, and joint of my body aches, I'm thankful to see another day.

The air is hot and sticky and I almost have to work to breathe. Summer is around the corner, and I know that if starvation doesn't kill me, then heat exhaustion definitely will. My hungry stomach reminds me of the pathetic state that I'm in, and I decide that I should start moving again.

I start to juggle my priorities in my mind as I leave the ally. Which comes first; food, a job, or a place to stay? I can't stay anywhere unless I have a job. And most places won't hire people unless they have a home. So I'm kind of screwed there. Then comes the problem of food and water. Without them, I'm as good as dead, so what's the use in worrying about the other two? It's funny how there's no balance between the three. In a sick sort of way, I guess.

And so on I walk. I don't know where the heck I'm going, but I walk. It's the only thing that'll keep me sane now.

By late afternoon, I'm aimlessly wandering on the outskirts of the middle class region of the city. The sun endlessly beats down on me and I'm sweating so much that I begin to wonder if that's the real reason why my clothes are still wet. My uncontrollable bangs hang low in my vision and I often have to brush them out of my face to see clearly. I could really use a haircut. But that's a luxury I can't afford at the moment.

I can't help but notice the stares some keep giving me. It's as if I'm some kind of hardened criminal who just broke out of jail looking to kill someone with his own two hands. Those walking in the other direction steer their paths so they don't have to come within five feet of me. It's really annoying, and I almost bear my teeth in a snarl at one snooty-looking lady.

As I walk, I notice a figure to my left that seems to copy my every move. I turn my head, and I'm slightly startled to see my reflection staring back at me. And I look _horrible._ First off, I'm slouched over in an unappealing fashion. My thin white t-shirt, drenched in water, sweat, and who knows what else, is completely see-through. My hair is matted and dirty. I must be one amazing spectacle. I look horrible, really, but then again I don't care. People can stare in disgust all they want. I'll even put on a show for them.

I chuckle at the thought of me dancing like a madman for people I don't know when my focus shifts. A colorful cake meets my vision. My mouth waters on sight, and I gravitate to the window. I see cupcakes. Cookies. Pie. Brownies. It's all laid out in a colorful display for the world to see. I don't realize how hungry I am until now.

I cast a quick glance up. The Rolling Pin. Nice name for a bakery, I suppose. When my gaze lowers back to the food I almost leap back in reaction to the woman standing right beside the cake display. When did she get there? She's watching me with a weary expression, while I just stand there and squint, trying to determine whether I know this woman or not. She looks really familiar… the sound of that troubled scream plays in my head; a chord of familiarity struck within me. It's the woman from yesterday, whose food almost got stolen.

And what do I do? I stand there and wave like an idiot. She gives me this weird half-smile in return and slowly moves for the door. As if welcoming me in, she simply flips the 'closed' sign to 'open' while watching my every move. I take that as my cue to walk in. Cautiously, though. She's probably still afraid of me.

The relief of being in air conditioning must be showing on my face, because she makes a noise that sounds like a stifled giggle. I open one of my closed eyes, and her face turns ghastly serious.

"You're the kid from yesterday, right?" I nod. Her face contorts in confusion, as if she doesn't know what to say next. "You punched that guy… that was you… Why are you here?" she asks, accusingly, almost.

I raise my arm and point with my thumb behind me. "I was just walking around. I had no idea this was yours."

Stupid. I must sound so stupid.

"Coincidental, then?"

"Yeah," I say, hoping she believes me.

She nods slowly, contemplating my answer. Then she says, "I'm sorry for running off like that yesterday. I really should have stayed and thanked you."

"No problem. It's understandable."

She nods again. "You at least deserve an introduction. My name's Annie." She offers me her hand and I shake it. She's soft.

"William," I say.

She doesn't give me the same stink eye that everyone else has. I already like that about her. Not to mention the fact that she's pretty. She's wearing a knee-length, aproned dress and her sandy blonde hair is tied in a messy bun. Her face is really cute. Freckles are lightly splashed along the bridge of her nose and her upper cheeks. Her eyes are prettiest shade of dark blue that I've ever seen. It's weird how intense they are, like deep, crystalline pools of the purest water that nature can provide.

"Well, William," she suddenly says as she takes a moment to brush her flour-covered hands on her apron, leaving white streaks. She quickly scurries back to the kitchen and when she comes back I can't help but hungrily notice the loaf of bread in her hands, as well as the sweet smell that follows her. Cinnamon. "As a token of gratitude I'd like to give you this. Free of charge, of course." From behind the main counter she artfully wraps the bread in a brown paper bag. Her tiny hands gently nudge the bag across the counter. "Here. Thank you for what you did."

I slowly approach the counter, slightly taken aback by her generosity and half-expecting her to take it back and laugh in my face. But by the time my hand is edging closer to the fragrant food, I'm convinced that the latter is not going to happen. She's just leaning against the counter, relaxed yet obviously perplexed by my reluctance.

"Thanks," I say distantly, the bag crunching in my hands as I close my grasp. A sleepy yawn escapes from her in reply followed by a small smile.

I emerge back into the almost-summer heat and take slow steps down the crowded sidewalk. As my proximity to the bakery decreases, my pace does the opposite. And before I know it, I have managed to slip away from the crowd into yet another dark ally.

I rip open the bag and bring the aromatic bread closer to my nose. The smell. It smells _so _good. As I greedily take a bite, I'm overwhelmed by the flavors and the texture. It's warm and fresh, moist and sweet and spongy; all the things that a great loaf of bread should be. And although I've never been a fan of raisins, I can't complain. It's free food.

I decide to ration the cinnamon-raisin bread. After all, this may be the only food I have for the next day, week, month, who knows. I hate that uncertainty, but now it seems like the only option I have.

With each passing day I get a bit dirtier, a bit gloomier, and a bit hungrier. I can't satisfy it. Although sometimes I get lucky enough to find a few small rations here and there (some in the worst places), I always stay hungry. I've forgotten what it's like to have a full stomach; when I eat I'm only less hungry then I was earlier. I thought I knew hungry before. Back in the orphanage, when I always wanted one more slice of bread, one more scoop of vegetables. I've never felt this kind of raging hunger before. Now I believe it when they say it makes a person desperate and crazy.

As I sit on a desolate sidewalk, I pick at my skin. Over the course of two weeks I've learned to ignore the smell that reeks from by body. I usually shy away from other people now. To them, I know I look like a burnout druggie who'd do anything to get a buzz. A heavy layer of stubble now covers my face and my hair is even longer than before. The weight has fallen off of me, and my face is bony and my eyes are sunken in. If it's even possible to plummet to an all-time low on these streets, I've definitely reached it.

A cardboard mat is my new makeshift bed. It's nothing special, but I've decided it's better than the ground. Since the day I've met Annie I haven't really traveled much. I simply lack the energy to do so. Given that, I still can't sleep though.

I prop myself up on shaky legs that carry me down the street for a little while. The night is quiet, the air hazy yet still in the absence of the hustle and bustle of the city. Traffic lights illuminate the street as far as I can see, a bright runway glowing red and green and yellow.

There's no one in sight. No one. It's almost too quiet. Right as the thought passes through my mind, the hairs on my neck stand up. I suddenly get the feeling that I'm not alone. So I stop walking and I listen.

But I hear nothing.

As I continue to walk, however, an unnerving queasiness settles into my stomach. _Something is not right_, my gut says. When I spin around on my heel, I realize that it's too late. Much too late.

I feel the impact first: a deafening blow to the side of my head. For a moment, I can't see, I can't hear. I can only focus on the pain that sends my world quaking. I collapse because I'm so dizzy.

Through my blurry vision, a man descends upon me. He roughly grabs the collar of my t-shirt and leans in close to my face. His expression is wild and crazy, and I realize that he must be high. Could be heroine, meth. I don't know.

"Who do you think you are?" he asks gruffly. I don't respond since I'm so out of it, so he shakes me roughly although it'll probably worsen the concussion I'm sure I have. "Huh?" he asks again. "You think you can just… just jump me like that? And not expect me to get revenge? Yeah? Well you're wrong, Will. Dead wrong."

I cringe at his choice of words.

_Dead wrong._

Those rusty brown eyes from two weeks ago are burning into my violet ones.

_You're wrong, Will. _

Will. Will as in William. He knows my name. Now I know that he's from Hawthorne, but I can't recall exactly who he is. That doesn't matter though. I'm about to wish I had _never _seen him.

His words are followed by another blow, this time to the face. After he gets a few more in, he stands up and spits in my direction. Whether it was on me or near me I don't know. By now my face is so incredibly bruised and swollen that it's a miracle I can see anything.

He's wearing a satisfied grimace that shoots chills down my spine and makes my skin prickle.

_Dead wrong. _

He raises his leg and kicks me in the stomach as he would a soccer ball. The force of the hit takes my breath away, and I'm left gasping for air. As I look up, I see a glimmer of something silver and shiny.

And I literally see my life flash before my eyes. I'm too weak to fight. I don't want to die.

His smirk disappears and he quickly bends down again. The knife in his hand is pointed right at my nose in a threatening gesture.

"Next time," he growls, eyes burning. "You won't see another day."

One more breathtaking kick to the stomach and he's gone.

I roll onto my side; the fetal position being the only thing that somewhat takes away the pain. Blood splatters from my mouth when I cough.

Red droplets are the last thing I see before the darkness takes over and I succumb to unconsciousness.

* * *

Thanks for reading!

I'd like to thank _Pandora'sDarkDreamer _for the first review!

I know it doesn't seem like much now, but trust me. I plan to take this story much deeper!

Hrm.. I believe that's it. Until next chapter! :)


	3. Chapter 3

The first thought that I can pull together with complete awareness is how much pain I'm _not _in. Or should I say how much pain I _should _be in.

My eyes are closed, but I can tell that my surroundings are bright. With a slight jolt I force them open, the faint movement of my body bringing on the rumbling storm of hurt that I know I should be feeling right about now. My teeth angrily grind against one another and I suck in a quiet breath of air.

A crystal-clear blue sky meets my vision. Am I dead? Surely I'm dead.

_Dead wrong. _

The memory of last night resurfaces in my mind and I'm left breathless. Literally. The pain in my ribs is so sharp and stabbing that now it hurts to breathe. They're either broken or bruised. I try to wrestle my limbs from their dormant positions but they cry in protest, putting me in riveting pain as a punishment for moving them. But I grit my teeth and pull myself up, using a pipe that lines the nearest building for support.

At this point, I think I'd rather be dead. Seriously.

Once that hurdle is out of the way and I find myself leaning heavily against the brick wall, I contemplate, _again, _what I should do next. I just… I wish someone could tell me what to do. Like that guy across the street. I wish he could just come right up to me and give me a game plan of some sort, like how they do on sports teams. A group huddle. Pep talk. I'm running dangerously low on ideas as seeing how nothing else has worked out for me in the past two-something weeks.

And I'm really starting to miss those slimy soups and stiff beds at the orphanage. But I digress.

All I know now is that I can't stay out here much longer. I'll die like this. Limping, caked-on blood, head-injury and everything. That is _not_ how I want to go down.

So what can I do?

The sad truth is, I don't know what to do anymore. I don't even know what I'm looking for, what I've _been _looking for. All I've been doing is moving from place to place, searching for ways to satisfy my short term needs. I'm a nomad. There's no use in trying to achieve my long-term goals anymore. When it comes down to it, the most important thing is keeping me alive. Survival.

So I make do with what I have. First I rip off a small piece from my shirt, which is pretty much a rag itself anyways, and try to wipe this dry blood from my face. It's coated all around my mouth from where it spewed from my nose. I can taste it. A nice, cold glass of water seems fit for this. I think it's summer now.

I realize that my thinking is a bit sporadic now; it's hard to focus on one certain task when my brain is constantly alerting me of one of my bodily needs. Thanks, brain. Like I don't know already. As I start to move, my chest rattles with every breath and I cough a bit, trying to ignore the searing pain in my side. Damnit. Where do I go?

Suddenly, in a majestic moment, the gloomy clouds seem to part and an idea enters my mind. I swear I can almost hear the angels singing and feel the bright rays of sunshine dancing across my face.

Annie.

I just met the woman, so no; I don't know her too well. But that doesn't matter. I _know _her. I know someone, an actual, living, breathing human being who could help me. I'm not totally stranded in the dark. There is a light at the end of the tunnel. A dim one, maybe, but still a light nonetheless. A flickering, weak flame, but still a glow.

Thankfully I still remember how to get there. Like I said, I haven't traveled much.

But man, the steps that I take are so painstakingly slow. I lumber on in the shadows, trying to remain unnoticed by the many people buzzing by in the streets. Honestly, I'm embarrassed of my appearance. Anyone who sees me is immediately going to assume that I'm a homeless, filthy, and broken mongrel. Which I am. I don't want them to look down on me because of that, but they will.

I feel like this is my last chance to live, my final strides to the finish line. Like my life comes down to this moment; it depends on my feet and my legs, working simultaneously, carrying me to what would be my final destination if Annie's not there. Because I might just throw in the towel if she's not sitting right behind that counter. I'll go and meet up with the local drug dealer for a trade. Bid my body off to the next lucky winner around the corner. Am I being totally impractical and melodramatic right now? Absolutely. Do I care? No, not really.

After what feels like a half-hour or so, I stumble over a hill and I see it: The Rolling Pin in all its glory. The angels return for their finale.

Now, I'm usually not one to ask for help. To search for pity. I always hated it when people looked at me as if I were some starving dog. But this is _life _or _death _I'm talking about. It changes the rules for everything, flips the story. My saving grace could very well be in that building and I don't plan on stopping until I get there. It's all or nothing now.

As I trudge on, everything begins to feel like a blazing whirlwind. A rush. My eyes strain to keep my target in focus, the effects of the dehydration and malnourishment really beginning to settle in as a result of my over-exertion. My legs are weaker now than ever before. I'm running on fumes. But I have to keep going. I have to. I stumble to the door, wildly throwing my palms on the cool glass for support, and look inside.

I can almost see the golden angel wings around her.

She stops whatever she's doing once she sees me and frantically rushes to the door. The keys fumble in her hands for a few moments, but I don't care. She's here. She can take as long as she wants.

The door swings open, and I collapse onto the cold floor.

…

A phone ring disrupts the peace and quiet. I throw the blankets over my head in an attempt to drown the noise out, but after a few rings I discover my efforts are futile. Eventually the ringing stops. I sigh in content; now I can finally get back to sleep.

Wait, what?

Blankets. I'm in a bed. This isn't my bed. Hell, I don't even _own _a bed. Where am I?

I throw the covers to the side. This bedroom… I've never seen it before. What day is it?

So many questions start to buzz around endlessly in my head, which, I notice, feels remarkably clear despite my confusion. I can reason better.

So I'm definitely in someone's room.

…And I figure out whose room it is when the door opens.

"Why do you keep coming back here?" a blonde woman sternly asks from the door. She holds a wobbly tray in her hands.

By the time she makes it to my bedside I make the connection of who it is. But I don't say anything, which seems to anger her even more. In fact, I can only focus on the bowl of food that she places down on the nightstand.

"Look at me," Annie hisses. She begins to speak to me like I don't know a word of English. "Why do you keep coming back to me? I don't know who you are or what you want. But I want an answer."

I stay silent.

"Okay, _William._" That catches my attention. She must see my expression because she latches onto my reaction. "Yeah? Think I wouldn't remember, huh? No, I remember, because the past three times I've seen you, you've been wearing the same set of clothes. Only each time you look worse than the last."

So if I'm such a pest then why am I in your bed?

"Because you passed out on the floor of my bakery and wouldn't wake back up," she spits. I don't even know that I had asked her that aloud until now.

But still, I go quiet again.

She sighs impatiently. "Look, I'll leave you alone if you just answer one question. You owe me that."

Like hell. I hardly know her and now I owe her things? Then I remember the fact that I am here, lying in _her _bed. Just one question, though.

"Sure," I mumble.

A slight hesitation. "Do you have anywhere to go?"

My heart stops when she asks that. It's a simple question, but something in the look she's giving me and the sad tone in her voice suggests more. I think she knows who I am; where I came from. Her question means, "Have you had a real chance?" and "Have you not eaten a solid meal in a long time?" It means, "Have you had a full night's sleep in the past week?" and "Do you know anyone else but yourself?"

So I tell her, "No."

She seems saddened by my answer. "Well, food's right there. The shower is down the hall to the right. I have some clothes and other things waiting for you. Go easy on the hot water, though."

And she leaves without another word. I'm slightly befuddled. At what, though, I'm not sure.

But hey, there's food. Actual _food. _

I can't explain what it feels like to finally eat after being so hollow for so long. She hasn't given me much, just a bowl of fruit salad and a small glass of orange juice and another with water. It probably wouldn't be good to stuff myself then throw it all back up. So this is good. It's just enough to give me some energy.

In fact, I feel so much better now that I walk down the hall to the shower, exactly where she said it'd be. And that's right, I said _walk. _Not limp. A small bit of rest has already worked wonders for me.

Is this a dream?

I enter the bathroom to find, sure enough, some clothes waiting for me. Not women's clothes either, but men's. She's left me some sweatpants, a t-shirt, boxers, shaving cream, razors, deodorant, the whole nine yards. I don't recall her having a husband or a boyfriend so I assume that this is all for me. Which makes me wonder, how long have I been out? Surely she's had the time to go out and buy these things. Now I really owe her.

The shower is, needless to say, amazing. I watch as the build-up of dirt slides off of me and swirls around the drain in a brown, soapy mixture. It's like shedding a whole layer of skin. It's rejuvenating. Even after I finish washing myself, I turn the water to cold and just chill, literally, for at least fifteen minutes. The contrast of the blazing summer heat and this rigid water is mind-blowing. Annie never comes in to yell at me or anything like that, either. She must not care all that much.

After I'm done with the shower and I finish shaving the growth on my face, I'm left to look at the long-term effects of my ordeal. My face is still gaunt from my weight loss. A black bruise decorates the area around one of my eyes and the swelling almost makes it close completely. And I can almost see my ribs poking out. Even my eyes themselves seem to have lost their finish. My color is drained, too. I'm still an unsightly mess, but at least I'm clean and fed now. Which is still hard to believe.

I clean up after myself and find Annie in the living room. The question fights to leave my head so I go ahead and ask it.

"How long was I out?"

"A day and a half," she answers matter-of-factly. She's sitting on the floor, eyes never leaving her magazine. "I tried to give you some small bites of food and sips of water while you were somewhat awake. As well as clean you up a bit. Just your face, I mean. But you've been in the twilight zone until today."

No, it still feels that way. And to hear all of that coming from someone I hardly know is… weird. It's weird that I've been sleeping in someone else's bed. That this person, this stranger, has been feeding me while I've been practically drunk from lack of nourishment. That this person actually went through the trouble to care for someone like me, someone she hardly knows and should very well be afraid of. Another question pesters me, but I don't ask this one out loud.

Why me?

* * *

So there ya have it!

The pace of the story will slow down a bit, now. I hope you all liked this chapter C:

Sorry for the wait. Honestly, between school and a job, I haven't even had the time to THINK about writing. Bleh. D: So big thanks for the continued support. :')

Review, anyone? Anything I need to work on? There's always something I can improve!

P.S.- For those following AAU, I'm SO SORRY :C I've refrained from posting another chapter until I finish these dang revisions. They need to be done. Like, absolutely-positively. I have not forgotten about that story. I hold it very close to my heart. :) Thank you for your patience.

Um.. I think that's it. Until next chapter! :D


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